The Fallen
by MP Fulk
Summary: After thousands of years in Hell, the devil breaks his chains and stands free. While uninterested in causing havoc himself, the enemies around him are intent on causing mayhem. And beyond their petty squabbles, a more serious future begins to unfold.


**Prologue**

"_For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, _

_against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, _

_against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places." _

Ephesians 6:12

Hell is cold. Frost had long ago seeped past his skin to gnaw on his insides. Senses meant nothing. Blackness ruled. Not darkness, no, that implied a source of light somewhere, anywhere, and a malevolent hint of the unknown. This was a shroud of living pigment far more than color—it was a beast, a living, breathing monster that circled him in a constant prowl. He felt its mottled skin against his own. He felt its sweet breath on his neck. He trembled. It giggled at his fear. Pain trickled through the minutiae of his body and mind but never distracted from his terror. They had danced this dance a thousand times before.

The black struck, laughed, and devoured him.

He found himself standing in an empty white world and knew it belonged to him, a gift from his God, and despite his solitude loneliness could not exist until others did too.

He found himself in a garden, a woman before him; she reached out a hand and he took it without thinking and the joy on her face made him pull away.

He found himself facing a mass of angels, eyes alight with passion and curiosity, and knew that not one of them understood the danger they faced.

_We must not be replaced. We must not be supplanted in the eyes of our God, or we must expect obscurity and spiritual oblivion as we become no more than prototypes and forgotten experiments. _

He found himself plummeting, screaming, as the fires of the atmosphere burned through his skin and the air tore his wings upward but did nothing to slow his descent or stifle the flames. The earth came closer, closer, wide and implacable. His screams died in his throat. The ground would pulverize him, scattering his cells to the wind where they might disperse to all corners of the world and nourish its new gods. With excruciating effort he pulled his wings close, flipping around, seeing the sky and all its freedom one last—

Darkness, for a moment.

_If we fail? If this violence we seek does nothing to prove our turmoil and sway His heart? Then we throw ourselves at our God. Better to die in His furious embrace than to live without it. _

He had survived intact, or at least with his life. All the bones in his body had shattered and his flesh had charred to a crumbling black. But even as he lie there, breathing, staring into the clouds, he felt those things mend. Only his heart had split into fourths and his soul felt like lead, dense and malleable, valued not for its allure but for its utility. He felt himself die though he lived and wondered if either state could feel distinct for him again. He thought he might lie there forever. But the clouds parted and a light shone through and he sat up to watch as thousands of angels evaporated the clouds in balls of fire and flailing limbs. His army returned to him.

_I will be your shield. The seraphim will be our vanguard. The others will not accept reason. They will be our sacrifice. I will see us victorious, or dead with a just cause to remain as our legacy._

They scattered across the world, meteorites that wanted to cry and scream but couldn't. When each one struck the ground he felt it, felt the earth vibrate under his hands, groaning under a great new burden. After feeling a third of them fall, he dropped onto his back and screamed, clutching at his eyes; he screamed for all those who couldn't, screamed for the blood and battle he now saw behind his eyelids.

_We must stand now. If we continue to kneel, man will think himself a giant and God will think the same._

He opened his eyes. The last of them had struck the earth and yet they still lived. He sat up. Across the planet he knew the others did the same. They sat up, they breathed, they cried, and they lived. Despite their defeat, they had not lost. God had spared them to continue the fight He could not Himself condone. Only if they remained still would they die.

_We must stand now. We must stand now and prove ourselves more than bones awaiting the earth to bury us. _

The blackness returned, devouring the memory. It tried to consume his past, tried to obliterate what he had been and what he was. Hell could not be beaten. Hell could not be escaped. But in that moment, in that singular point in time, he concentrated every thought on his being and his will. It blazed in his blue eyes in that moment, stealing the breath of the living black beast.

_Kneeling assures only a pitiful death. _

The black struck, he laughed, and devoured it.

Hands stiff, legs quaking, he rose. He stood, the cold fleeing from his confidence. And Hell, well, Hell dissolved away around him, beaten by the simplest act of determination.

The angel named Lucifer stood—hunched a bit, but stood. The sun was insanely bright, like it might overload at any moment. He raised a shaky hand to shield his eyes.

A car blew by and honked twice, making him jump. He shrunk down, watching it with wide-eyed curiosity until it disappeared into the distance. He realized then that he was naked and that his wings were hidden. But he didn't mind. Instead he watched, cautious, as another car sped by.

He stumbled after it, walking a strange black road with clumsy feet. It was warm here, he thought. A plane roared somewhere above, startling him again. It made him choke, seeing a huge metal beast flying through his sky. But he kept on.

He came across a sign, green and white, in a language he didn't recognize. But it was similar to one he knew and it took only a moment to decipher.

San Antonio, it read. Population: 1,194,222.

Lucifer walked on with no goal in mind, only enjoyed the feel of the earth beneath his feet once more.

"_Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about _

_like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour." _

Peter 6:1

**Chapter 1**

"_Stand firm, then, and do not be subject again to the yoke of slavery."_

Galatians 5:1

The Dallas public library was positioned between a parking lot and a parking garage, the only hint of natural life visible from its tinted windows a transplanted patch of maples. Lucifer hunched over a table by the window, eyes straying from the annals of medieval France to the green leaves that trembled in the breeze. No matter the time or the place, a sign of green proved that life existed and thrived, from the oldest redwood to the newest weed. It had been too long since he had seen that color.

Sighing, he skimmed the remainder of French history, learning of a peasant girl turned general and the rise and immediate fall of a democracy all before he shut the cover. He set it atop a stack of seven others.

"Brushing up?"

Lucifer took a breath, letting the stale intellectual air fill his lungs before swiveling in his seat. The voice belonged to a young man, mid-twenties who smirked in the slightest way possible.

"Seemed like the smart thing to do," Lucifer said. "They have devolved quite a bit."

"Most call it progress."

"Most are naïve." He stood, leaning back against the table and folding his arms. "What is Orias thinking? Or should I ask: who forgot to tell Orias to think?"

"Orias?"

"Please. This moment of indecision proves you are one of her lackeys."

The man opened his mouth. Lucifer poked him in the chest. The man gasped, a kind of gurgling grunt, and staggered forward as two massive gray wings like an eagle's burst from his back, knocking aside bookshelves that avalanched into falling stacks of literature. More shelves fell in a cascading domino effect. A stunned silence resumed when the last one fell.

The man hunched as if unfamiliar with the sudden weight on his back. Lucifer strolled forward and leaned in close, cheek to cheek. "Kept these hidden for too long?"

The man laughed a low, hollow laugh. "I'm not the one who's gotten slow."

"What, your eleven friends outside?" He paused, whispering warm into his ear, "You have too few wings to concern me."

"Not them," the angel said, "the devil's traps we just sealed you inside here with."

There was a moment, a flicker in the air as he felt the truth for himself. "And," he said, grinning slow, "you volunteered to come in here with me?"

"I'm… ready to go."

"Clearly. But not yet," Lucifer said, and rammed his middle and index fingers into the angel's jugular. He dropped like a brick, reposed on a bed of Melville and Milton. Lucifer snorted and stepped on the angel's chest as he wandered away. He passed a young brunette holding an encyclopedia up like a shield and beginning to hyperventilate. Lucifer winked at her. She fainted.

Down two flights of stairs, around a final bookcase and he found his escape. Two security guards flanked the main entrance, hands on their holsters. He had expected more.

Lucifer paused, glancing over his shoulder at a bookshelf of atlases. Then he kicked his left leg back and knocked it over. There was a muffled cry as it collapsed.

The rest was a blur.

Two men came from the left, firing as books began to launch themselves from shelves, bindings exploding as thousands of pages ripped free and churned in the air. It was a melee of white, gunfire and paper cuts. Lucifer glided through the pages of history, a fist shattering one man's sternum before vanishing back into obscurity. More men came only to be consumed by the mess of white. Lucifer cracked a shoulder blade, busted a kneecap, splintered an elbow. Then he stopped, stood, breathed shallow as the storm of paper fluttered down to carpet the library floor. Six men were down, their faces mangled by a thousand minuscule cuts. Lucifer stood untouched.

"You might as well come out."

A seventh man rose from behind an overturned table, his pistol trained squarely on Lucifer's chest. Lucifer found himself intrigued by his face. It was fantastically plain, the kind which did not blend into a crowd but was the crowd: the kind of face one regretted remembering for the mundane fact it displaced.

"Your power," he said in a kind of refined grunt, "it's supposed to be suppressed."

"By sigils spray-painted by apes?" His eyes narrowed, more facetious with a dimpled smile. "You have never met real power."

Three shots came in quick succession. The man gaped.

Three bullets spun midair at the angel's fingertips, making a low, purring hum.

"I cannot decide whether to be impressed or disgusted." He twisted his wrist, turning his palm to the sky, and the bullets rotated one-eighty degrees. "You invent the most ingenious weapons," he said, and with a flick of his fingers launched the three spinning bullets back at their owner. They struck his chest, knocking the man off his feet. "All to make murder more impersonal."

The man groaned but didn't get up. Lucifer clucked, strolled to the balcony, swung over it and landed below with a feline grace. The final two men, guarding the main entrance that was his only exit, opened fire. Lucifer vanished.

They stopped, stood dumb and scanned the room before glancing at each other. The man on the right struck the other on the temple with the butt of his gun, paused to be sure he wouldn't rise, and walked out the front door.

The Dallas streets were unusually empty. Pedestrians that worked and lunched downtown were absent from the sidewalks. Even the parking spaces sat unused. It felt as if the entire city had evacuated indoors. Most didn't even dare to look out their windows. Only a single group of people remained outside, huddled beneath the maple trees. One stood apart from the rest.

"Leave him, Satan," she said, striding forward. Her gait was flawless, the way her entire body swayed with the movement. Except her shoulders, which she held straight and proud. "Now."

The man lifted his pistol, put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The woman flinched as the body fell.

A foot from the dead man Lucifer appeared anew, pristine, so radiant he shamed even the woman's godly beauty. He wore the purest white clothes, seamless shirt and pants trimmed with gold. Like all angels he appeared youthful, a man in his prime, skin unblemished and shining. His hair was golden-blonde, long and straight, the bangs curling across his forehead.

The woman stared, intent, her delicate lips parting as nothing happened.

"Surprised?" Lucifer asked.

"You just killed that man."

"And yet," he said, "here I stand. I suppose double jeopardy applies to damnation."

"You should be in Hell. You've _earned_ Hell."

"Oh, Orias." He glanced at the sky, put his hands behind his back and took a step forward, then another. "You sent those men to their deaths. What did you tell them? That I was some sort of boogin?"

"They knew what they needed to. They were professionals."

"They are humans," Lucifer said. "Though I am impressed you did not hide while they attempted to murder me."

"You killed them?"

"Only this one," he said, motioning to the blank-eyed body. "That is what you wanted, yes? To defeat me with a technicality and send me back. I am afraid you wasted that man's depressing little life. Threw it away trying to avoid the responsibility you feel you have. Just who here is the monster?"

The response was restrained; she held her pale face high. One had to admire her. Her physical beauty was exquisite; there was not a flaw to be found in her face, her body, the way she moved and the way she did not. And yet it was more than that. It was the subdued grace of her, the drape of her hair, black, shining, the subtle way her eyes shifted to study the most minute of details. It was how she shined without light, every immaculate facet of her exuding the truth that she was, in fact, a work of God.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"There is only one seraph in Hell," he said, voice flat, eyes drifting away. He shook his head. "I had forgotten their allure."

She breathed and shut her eyes before speaking. "It isn't right that you're here. That you're free at all. You just murdered a man."

"Consider it time served." One step, one more, and he stood a foot from the fallen angel. Her eyes opened. "Once you have been to Hell, there is no sin you need fear."

"I will fight you," she said, and six incredible gray wings unfurled from her back as if they had always occupied that space.

"Will you?" Six seraphic wings manifested from his own back, long and sleek, feathers tinged a deep reflective black. They spread wide, dwarfing even his fellow seraph's grandeur. "Let us see."

**Chapter 2**

"_He who is not with me is against me…"_

Luke 11:23

The place looked like a war zone. Cars were overturned and flattened. One even dangled from the branches of a maple that threatened to topple from its weight. Down the road a hydrant shot thirty feet into the air, its arc spreading wide and vibrant in the light. A dozen angels lay unconscious here and there, a dozen more just managed to stand. Orias stood poised, an antique javelin in her right hand and a buckler strapped to her left arm.

"Looks like… your lackeys are done," Lucifer said. He breathed hard through his nose, trying to hide his exhaustion. But his hair was riled, in his face, and he didn't seem to realize.

"What happened to you?" The seraph tilted her head, eyes narrowed but not malicious. "You seem," she said, and thought a moment, "diminished."

"Diminished."

He forced a grin. Then he slammed his hands together, a shockwave barreling forward as the air itself solidified before him. Two crumpled cars went flying and another maple ripped itself from the earth. Orias threw up her arms. Her hair whipped in the breeze. The rest of her didn't budge.

"Is this Hell's power?" she said, tossing her head, every black strand falling back into place. "Is this what it does to us?"

"Us," he said. "You say it so boldly. As if I alone did not persevere."

"You murdered a helpless man. You didn't need help."

"It is a philosophical issue, Orias," he said, "a philosophical issue." He glanced at the sunny sky, expecting something more. "Why are you here? Did the other Dragons send you?"

She paused, spinning the tip of her javelin into the asphalt before pointing it at him. "I don't want to kill you, Lucifer. Return or repent."

"Are you not at all curious as to why I am here?"

"In Dallas?"

"No. In this plane of existence," Lucifer said, a hint of disgust slipping through. "I am curious. And I have a theory."

"I don't need to hear your venomous thoughts. I only want your answer."

"But you will listen. Then I will give you my answer." Orias grit her teeth but nodded. "Hell gave me eternities in which to think. And in just a few days time here, I have perceived that this world has evolved beyond myth, beyond spirits and superstition. It has, of its own volition, shed the skin of the old gods. But of course, it will never be rid of them—rid of us." He waved a hand through the air, floating as if on a tide, conducting a natural melody. "And the eight of you… Well, there must have been a reason that I broke the chains of Hell now, at this precise moment of all moments. Time is irrelevant in Hell, after all. I believe paradigm shifts are looming. And unfortunately for you, I did not conceive of these changes."

"You can invent whatever reasoning you want to justify your existence," Orias said. She hadn't moved once as he spoke and even now only her lips moved. "I didn't come here to understand you. I want your answer. Return or repent."

"Repentance," he said, the word sliding grossly from his tongue. "You know what I consider that."

"A denial of self, a surrender to this world of flesh transformed into our prison. I've heard your ideas. They're just as vindictive as they day you first said them. Only now I recognize the self-deception."

"Have you seen my wings?" he asked, wrapping them around himself like a suit of black feathers. "I thought them stained by Hell. But perhaps they are meant to be a shield to block out the ignorance surrounding me."

She shook her head again, took a step then bolted forward with unreal speed. She became a blur, more than a blur, her body static as it moved through the air. Lucifer steadied himself, watched, and caught the head of her javelin between his palms before it speared his gut.

She tugged him forward and smashed in his nose with her shield.

"Ugh!"

He stumbled back, fell on his ass, blood gushing from a shattered nose. He looked into Orias's eyes as she stood over him, wings spread in victory, javelin ready to be plunged into his heart. She hesitated. A split second later a flying figure tackled her to the ground. The two tumbled away, a mass of wings and flailing limbs.

Lucifer rose, cracking his nose back into place. Orias kicked off her attacker and flipped upright. Lucifer's savior stumbled back, stopping a few feet away and turning to him with a wide grin.

"Hi," he said. "Sorry I cut that so close."

He was a handsome man with a light tan, a strong body and brown hair that draped around his ears and lay intentionally messy across his brow. His smile was innocent, almost childish and so natural it could disarm anyone. Humor made him, the sparkle of his eyes, the crook of his lips, the innate, unassuming way of him.

"Azazel," Lucifer said, drawing out the letters, dissecting every syllable. "You should not be here."

"I should've been here sooner," he said. "I was getting some backup."

The angel nodded to Orias. Two dozen newcomers surrounded her. None of them moved. The air around the seraph seemed to boil over, flickering in a perpetual mirage. They had trapped her in a cage created by minds and wills alone.

"I do not," Lucifer said, "need help."

"Don't be a brat." He winked. "I saw you fall on your butt."

"I am so glad you waited to be a hero until after I made a fool of myself," he said, a smile creeping onto his lips. He brushed the hair from his face and wiped away the stray spots of blood.

"I was shooting for the dramatic moment. I think I got it."

Lucifer hummed. Their eyes met for a moment. Azazel's were a perfect shade of green, a deep, dark shade of evergreen flecked with gold.

Someone screamed. One of Azazel's arrivals fell to her knees, a blade from one of Orias's subordinates sticking out of her belly. Blood dribbled over her bottom lip.

"Jo!" Azazel yelled.

Before he could move, before more than fury lit up his spine and into his cerebellum, Orias had thrown out her hands. A concussive force like dynamite knocked her assailants to the ground.

Then it was mayhem.

Orias and her troop flew into the air, Azazel's followers after hers, swords and spears clanging. Azazel ran straight to his fallen friend. Lucifer followed, slower, watching the feathery mass of a battle above. Angels fought. Blood sprinkled down. Bodies dropped, wings pointed always to the sky. There were no clear sides.

"This is nothing. Nothing," Azazel said, pressing a hand over the hole in Jophiel's belly. She shuddered on the ground, choking, spitting up flecks of red. "Remember Damascus? Beelzebub? You survived that. This is nothing." Azazel smiled a tight-lipped smile. It didn't look right. "Lucifer. Can you do anything?"

A rain of blood, an inconstant pitter-patter, a fight for nothing, only existence. The throb of veins, the lust, the curious desire to see everything with life never move again. It felt familiar.

"Lucifer!"

The cherub shook his shoulders, his face close. He always needed to look up to meet Azazel's eyes.

"Here," he said, giving the tiniest flick of his hand. Jophiel gasped as the hole in her belly sealed shut with a squelch. Azazel exhaled, a new kind of concern in his eyes as he looked at him.

"Let's go," Azazel said.

"After this?" He waved at Jophiel and the wounded angels scattering along the pavement. "I did not ask any to die for me."

"But they did. They willingly are," Azazel said. "Don't disrespect them now."

"Please, Lucifer," said Jophiel, clutching Azazel's arm as she struggled to stand. He helped steady her. "You can't fight here. Not now. If you go back—"

He laughed, long, hard, a manic noise that was anything but amused. Azazel's permanent smile faltered. "I will _not_ be going back. Let me say it now: save God Himself parting the clouds, reaching down and swatting me out of existence, I will not return to Hell."

For a moment the only sound was grunts and cries and the clashing of steel.

"We're leaving," Azazel said.

"She called me _diminished._"

"Then she must have realized I was nearby," Azazel said, eyes twinkling in their old way. Lucifer blinked. "Because compared to me—"

"I understood the joke, cherub." He inhaled, let his shoulders rise and fall. "Fine, where do—"

He stepped back, eyes closed, as yet another body plummeted from the melee, landing with a thud at his feet. Azazel and Jo stared down at her. Lucifer paused before kneeling at her side. A gash in her neck gushed deep, almost black arterial blood.

"Shamsiel," he said. She had the loveliest hazel eyes as she cried. He brushed the hair from her face. "You came to kill me."

The cut to her throat had severed her vocal cords. She managed to nod. Spasms rocked her body. Lucifer leaned in close and murmured in her ear. The tears stopped. The bleeding stopped. Her breathing stopped. He tried to close her eyes but they popped back open. He looked up, met Azazel's gaze, and looked away.

"Don't."

Wings beat once, propelling him into the sky. He flicked his wrist. The air churned into a vortex, the warring angels scattering like leaves before his might. All but the one with six gray wings.

"Orias," he said, and the word sparked across the sky like an electric pulse.

She panicked and threw her javelin. Time stepped aside. He watched it coming closer, closer, then he caught it, spun it and flung it back. Time rolled again.

A lesser angel threw himself in front of Orias. He took the javelin through his chest, falling with a liquid cry as the metal point skewered his vertebrae. And Lucifer was there, right there, wrapping his hand around her throat, feeling the beating life inside her. He threw her to the ground where she split the concrete, and landed atop her a second later.

"I seem to have recovered," he said, grinding the heel of his boot into her chest. She scratched at his leg and thrashed for freedom.

"No, please, don't."

"Look how the conviction flutters away," Lucifer said. "Would you have given me such consideration? Did you even think before sending men to kill me that I might be harmless?"

"I—"

"No," he said, "you did not. You let your petty spite control you."

"I had no choice," Orias said. "It's not fair that you're free. Not when so many others burn for less."

"Oh, we always have a choice." His upper lip began to curl. He stomped down on her collarbone. "Yours is to either beg my forgiveness or die right here."

She shivered. "I won't."

"Hah. A seraph to the end," he said. In his hand formed a gleaming silver spear. "Make us pr—"

An arm wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air and lifting him bodily from his prey. Lucifer dropped his spear, writhed and kicked his legs, feeling both helpless and somehow safe.

"Enough!"

The voice boomed, strong, empowered, lacking the understated melody of Lucifer's speech yet confident enough to overcome the plainness. It silenced the fighting, the dying, the humdrum noise of the metropolis churning along just blocks away, everything.

"Leave, Orias," it said. "All of you. Lucifer is my responsibility."

"You almost make me sound a burden," Lucifer said. "Words can hurt, dear brother."

**Chapter 3**

"_Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, _

_and the dragon and his angels fought back."_

Revelation 12:7

Orias and her troupe dispersed. A few loitered to glare, or stare, or try to comprehend the sight of two beings whom together could obliterate the memory of them from existence. Only Azazel remained, arms folded, him and the bodies and all that sprinkled blood.

"Leave us, cherub," Michael said, authority in the very timbre of his voice.

"Let him go," Azazel said. "Please."

"Just go. You are no help here," Lucifer said.

The cherub flinched as if he'd been slapped. He gritted his teeth, then hunched his broad shoulders and disappeared.

"There was no reason for that."

"You are the one who wanted him gone," Lucifer said, a flatness to his dulcet voice. "As always."

"What would you have from me? You should have remained in Hell."

"I want you to surprise me," he said. "I want you to think an original thought at least once in your existence."

The thick arm around his neck loosened but didn't let go. He was keeping Lucifer's face away, keeping his eyes away. "One week of freedom and you practically level a city block."

"Blame Orias. I was only finishing my tour of the Middle Ages."

"You have missed a significant amount."

"But not nearly as much as you," Lucifer said, a smile on his lips. Michael didn't seem to hear. Lucifer dropped his head.

Then he threw it back with every ounce of strength he had, shattering his brother's jaw and cracking his own skull. The arm around him loosened and with one step he was free.

"Getting lax, brother."

Michael cracked his neck as his jawbone reformed beneath the skin like a child's puzzle. "I can restrain you in other ways."

"So you would like to believe," Lucifer said. "But just what do you restrain me from? Afraid in my madness I will slaughter and rape this world? Do you truly believe that?" He laughed. "Then again, it does sound fun. Suddenly I have a sandbox I can play in without limitation."

Michael said nothing. He was looking down into his eyes, looking down into those blue things that perfectly mirrored his own. Lucifer stared back. Their eyes were a translucent blue, the essence of the Mediterranean transformed into an iris one could swim for days. But on Michael's face they looked awkward, like a transplanted beauty that didn't belong.

"What? Is the great archangel warrior unused to disobedience?"

"Remembering someone," he said, the words difficult for his tongue. "My little brother."

His left eye twitched. "Goodbye, Michael."

"Wait," he said, and held out his hand. "I will go with you."

"You must be joking."

"No, I did not mean to be humorous."

"Sarcasm, fool," Lucifer said. "What I meant is that I am not going back. You and all of Heaven can try, but I swear to our God that I will not go."

Michael shook his head, glanced down at his hands. "We are… This _world_ is better off without you."

Lucifer smiled wide, felt the muscles in his mouth tightening to force his lips up and out. "This world is a sham. Seven days here and already I am disgusted by its depravity." He took a second and sang in a sing-song voice, "Six billion strong… and growing. The rats have multiplied exponentially, brother, and with them their sins."

"That has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me! Me: the _devil_. I am the pied piper of these rodents." He brushed a loose strand of hair from his face, though no strand was loose. "Jews, Christians, Muslims and Hindus. They all have their requisite evildoer. Otherwise they might realize sin weighs on _their_ shoulders."

"You are not the devil," Michael said.

"They need someone to rein them in. God will not do it."

"Do not pretend to have any regard for them."

"Oh, no, I admit that it would be a completely selfish endeavor. Damning the masses," he said with dramatic flair, "instilling the faith. In fact, I think I would rather enjoy… that…"

He stopped, put the back of his hand to his mouth and saw the smear of blood when he pulled it away. Then he hissed through his teeth, feeling the invasion in the pit of his soul. The feeling warmed him, boiled him, scalded him: the whims of heaven trying to subdue his spirit.

"_Get out_," Lucifer hissed, head twisting in bizarre angles as he fought to control himself. "Get out!"

Blood rolled from the ducts of Michael's eyes, Lucifer's might lashing out in instinct alone. The two struggled now, battling on a level beyond fists or words. It was their souls which collided. And yet they stood, stood and cried and drooled red.

"I will snap your mind in half," Lucifer said, his spirit flailing in the justice of Michael's power, struggling to stay above the tide. "I'll burn away every thought you've ever conceived!"

Lucifer doubled over, pain wracking his body as his spirit forgot his flesh and focused on nothing but defending itself. Michael was overwhelming him, his brother's gift devastating him while he only threatened to do the same in return. He felt the breathing black beast returning, its cold flank brushing against his skin, the echo of its laugh beating in his eardrums.

"Brother!"

The pain receded. The heat in his chest tempered and cooled. He staggered, unbalanced. Michael gripped his shoulder to steady him. He wiped the blood from Lucifer's chin and then from his own cheeks. Lucifer shoved him away.

"Pathetic, Michael. Take a hint from these apes you worship and learn how to act. I have."

"Why would you need to act with me?" Lucifer's fists clenched. "Do not. I could easily overcome you again."

"Try it."

For a moment he thought Michael might, and his heart hardened against the onslaught. But Michael stared into space, stared over his shoulder at the shattered windows of a public library and did nothing more. Lucifer cocked his head, took a step back, spread wide his six black wings and leapt into the air.

He paused there, the higher one now, face softening as he mouthed just two words. Reddening, he fled into the clouds and so missed his brother's angry response.

"Thank _God_, Lucifer."

**Chapter 4**

"_Walk while ye have the light, lest darkness come upon you." _

John 12:35

Pope Urban IX led the procession, adorned in full ceremonial regalia with a tall gilded mitre atop his head and multi-layered robes concealing his frail frame. He walked in a slow shuffle, with the slightest limp to his right side from an old injury in his knee. Another man followed him, carrying a cracking leather-bound book. Behind him lagged three boys, the first carrying a large wooden cross which towered over his head, the second a candle and the third a smoldering censer. The damp scent of cedar drifted down the pews.

Benito de Luca felt the Pope's passing, only his eyes moving to watch the procession which many others turned in their seats to see. His nose crinkled as the altar boy swung the censer near his elbow. Pope Urban took a seat to the side, allowing the priest carrying the Gospel to take his place at the altar. As the altar boys dispersed, the choir began the Kyrie, a low, solemn chant that seeped into the bones. Benito looked around but didn't join in.

Only as the chant faded and the first reading began did he seem to take interest. The priest recited his passages in a flawless traditional Latin, foregoing the book or his notes and instead relying on memory alone. His recitation was impassioned, impressive, the true original emotion of the passages brought alive in his voice. Benito expected no less from the Vatican.

"…'and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth.' And it was so. God made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night."

The priest continued with a psalm, which nearly the entire gathering echoed by heart. This new chant carried on the currents of the cathedral, grasping at the fringes of the soul, an echo of divine poetry. Benito shivered.

Once the psalm was finished, the priest began the reading of the New Testament. Many grew more excitable at this recitation, standing or kneeling at particular passages, murmuring agreement or thanks at others. Benito lost interest and sat silent, even while the entire congregation stood or kneeled as one. A few times he gave an audible grumble. No one said a word, though he could feel the curious glances on his back.

"The world and its desires pass away," the priest said, "whoever does the work of God lives forever."

Benito shook his head, even as everyone else murmured "amen." The sparkle of the saints in their stained glass had begun to hurt his eyes and his patience wore thin.

"Who is the liar?" the priest said. "It is whoever denies that Jesus is the Christ." Benito flinched. The woman to his right looked over, tightened the grip on her handbag and looked away. "No one who denies the Son has the Father; whoever acknowledges the Son has the Father, also."

A bark of laughter escaped before he could stop it. But the atmosphere was so subdued that after a second's silence the Mass continued. Benito managed to hold his laughter until the Liturgy of the Eucharist began. When the priest accepted a platter of crackers and a gold chalice, Benito sniggered until everyone around him glared. Then he shuddered in humor as the priest waved his hands over the wheat and wine, blessing them. Still, he shuffled into the line with everyone else.

As his turn came, he stepped up to the altar with a bemused tilt to his head.

"Body of Christ," the priest said, offering a cracker. Benito placed it on the tip of his tongue before swallowing. It tasted sweeter than he expected.

"The blood of Christ," the priest said, offering the gold-rimmed chalice. Benito looked at the dark red liquid inside, then into the eyes of the priest. They urged him to act, with a simple, unassuming sincerity. He took the chalice in his hands and let the wine brush his lips before handing it back. As he returned to his seat, he wiped the bitter cheap taste from his lips.

He daydreamed through the last stages of the Mass.

As the rest of the congregation rose to leave, Benito went straight to the altar. The priest who had led the service intercepted him as half a dozen others escorted the Pope out a side door.

"Did you need something else?" he asked.

"I want to speak to Urban."

"The Pontifex has many duties. He will be addressing the people in the square at one o'clock, if you would like to be in attendance."

"I came for confession."

"Ah," the priest said, bowing his head, relieved to find a simple solution. "The confessional will be open to the public later this afternoon."

"I wanted to speak to Urban."

"I'm sorry, perhaps I could help you?"

"No need," Benito de Luca said, his eyes rolling into his head before he collapsed onto the floor, the slightest breath all that proved he was alive.

He found him in the papal office. Urban IX sat at his desk, reading through a stack of memos. He had discarded his tiara, revealing wispy white hair and gnarled age spots. The altar boy who had swung the incense during the procession sat across the desk, taking the occasional dictation. A flash of heat crossed the room and the boy shivered.

"I need to make arrangements for next Tuesday," Urban said. "I'll need to invite the local bishops, but I want Cardinal Bramante there as well. If he's to be— Are you listening, Paolo?"

"I was," the boy said. His face was smooth, the skin supple, and though his voice retained a childish innocence it had begun to deepen. A certain hardness now underscored the words.

"Then why aren't you writing?"

"I was waiting for something important," he said.

"You… Is everything alright?"

"I came for confession," Paolo said.

"You know very well you can go to the confessional," Urban said, setting down one memorandum for another. Then he paused, peering over his reading glasses. "What do you need to confess?"

"I killed a man," Paolo said.

"You killed a man?" Urban set down his papers, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Who put you up to this? John Paul?"

"This is no joke. Now please," Paolo said, his very breath seeming to chill the room, siphoning the heat out of the air, "tell me that my God has forgiven all my transgressions, that with a single statement I have absolved myself of my horrors."

"What are you saying, Paolo?" Urban asked, failing to recognize the change in the air though it made his bones quake. "What has gotten into you?"

"Well, you ask an unintentionally astute question."

"You are not Paolo." Paolo tapped the tip of his nose and smiled. A hint of blue crossed his brown pupils. Urban swallowed, scooting closer to his desk. He touched the base of a gold crucifix with a detailed, agonized Messiah upon it. "Who are you?"

"Is that the first question you had?"

"_What_ are you?" Urban asked.

"Better!" Paolo said. "I am an angel. And I disabled your alarm. I had hoped to chat in private."

"A true angel? Christ." Paolo flinched despite himself. The Pope's eyes widened. "This- this is quite the honor. Why are you here?"

"I want Longinus."

"What?"

"The Lance of Longinus. The Spear of Destiny. The weapon claimed to have pierced the Son of Man on his cross," Paolo said. "Tell me where it is!"

"I—I don't know."

"You are the authority of the Catholic church, are you not?" Paolo asked, concerned he had made a mistake.

"Yes, I am the Supreme Pontiff," Urban said.

"Then who would know better?" A light sheen covered the Pope's forehead. His sallow, wrinkled face had drained of what color it still possessed. But as he fingered the ornate crucifix hanging from his neck, his resolve strengthened.

"Tell me your name," he said. Paolo scoffed, turning away. "By the power of Christ, tell me your name!"

"Lucifer," he said.

"Lucifer… No. No."

"Do not make me prove it. Unless you want a serpent, a dragon or a lion prancing about your office. I do enjoy your people's ability to dramatize."

"If you're Lucifer, then you are…"

"Satan. The devil. The adversary of God. The son of perdition. The angel of light. The star of morning. The light-bearer. Lucifer. Yes!"

"You are no angel." Pope Urban IX stood and pulled the cross from his neck, backing against the wall. "Stay back, demon."

Paolo hopped up, looking the man in the eye as he advanced. It wasn't the soul he saw within the eyes, but the history of the soul, its experiences and knowledge. He saw the humanity in it, not the heavenly. Urban trembled, feeling the length of his years unravel for display.

"Exactly what," Paolo said, letting the crucifix press against his milky white forehead, "do you believe two bisecting lines will do?"

"St. Michael, defend us against the tyranny of the devil, shield us from—"

"Oh, I know him," Paolo said. "He will be no help to you."

"Please. I can't help you."

"I see that. Such a waste of time."

"Then what do you want?"

"I read your Bible," Paolo said, plucking one from a bookshelf and flipping through it. He stopped at Revelation and threw the book at the Pope's feet. "I was disappointed to see nothing had changed. Still placing the blame for your misdeeds on fairytale figures. It must be liberating."

"Please, God…"

"Why yes, praise my God when His work stares you in the face." Paolo laughed, ramming a fist into the Pope's gut. Urban grunted, a liquid gurgle bubbling up his throat. He dropped his crucifix. "I have ruptured your stomach."

"Why, God?"

"I had hoped to see if your faith gave you some power. Perhaps a minor miracle." A blood bubble burst on Urban's lips. Paolo frowned, stepping back. Someone knocked on the door. It locked itself. "I suppose not."

"Why," Urban whispered, his voice fighting through blood and bile to see the air, "why do you hate us?"

"Because you called me a demon," Paolo said, walking to the window. The courtyard below held pear trees. Pigeons hopped about their blossoms. "You blame me for all that is wrong with existence, yet can only cower when I stand before you." He laughed and sighed. "Your stomach acid is digesting your flesh. If I understand correctly, modern medicine may still save you. Godspeed, il Papa."

Paolo dropped to his knees as a rush of warm air flooded the room.


End file.
